


The Ocean Has No Place to Go

by AltaVega9



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Clarus Amicitia Is a Good Bro, ClarusScaresCor, EmotionalWhump!Regis, EtroMoreLikeET-NO, Gen, OyGladioPopsUpOnce, RegisIsAGoodDad, The Cracks in CXIII, TheyBanterThenTheyBreak
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-05
Updated: 2021-02-05
Packaged: 2021-03-17 01:42:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29217399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AltaVega9/pseuds/AltaVega9
Summary: A brother consoles a father who has nowhere to put the vastness that threatens to swallow him. A father holds on to a brother who would not have it any other way.Clarus proceeds to make his way to a special room with a painting he has only seen once before, a man he has served his whole life, and a burden that threatens even the strongest of kings.
Kudos: 9





	The Ocean Has No Place to Go

**Author's Note:**

> Dear readers, I've taken a lot of liberties with the facts as explored in XV. This is a gentle warning so that if you see any inconsistencies, you can know where to pin the blame on the sabertusk. I haven't slept properly since yesterday afternoon (it is evening, the following day), but I truly had a lot of fun writing this. Thank you, and enjoy please.

When the room clears and he can focus on the one thing, Clarus knows where to find him. Along with predicting the moods of his king, his favourite dishes, and identifying the small cues that he uses to speak volumes, determining areas of the palace that held peace for the mind of their monarch proved to be a very valuable skill. It helped especially when Regis did not want to welcome any company—which Clarus being Clarus, was something that only he could completely ignore given his post and his genuine sense of concern for the man.

In the past, Regis would turn to secret passages for solace, away from the Crownsguard, away from the lone Kingsglaive trainee that would lose his way during his search for the designated training grounds, away from eyes that could not help but see and ears that could not help but hear, both actions culminating in the crafting of conclusions far removed from what was true or even believable. Clarus, however, had discovered his most important haunts, while Cor chanced on a few others, opening a random door or two when he was half-dead from his patrols. It certainly informed Regis that he would have to move shop and be smart about his succeeding choices because predictability brought undeniable vulnerability, and with it, danger.

Despite being jovial and personable, Clarus understood why Regis actively sought out places he could retire to without the concern of being immediately found. As a prince, Regis had learned to be careful and discreet, to conduct his business in seclusion, to protect his privacy with a ruthless intensity that warded off intruders of all kinds lest King Mors remind him coolly about the importance of tact. To do that, he worked with what he had, making the most of the foreboding structure he and his forefathers had always called home.

Clarus did not the least bit doubt that Regis had the citadel mapped out down to its last corridor; if Regis truly did not wish to be found, even the gods themselves would not be able to compel him to divulge his location. When he wanted to be found, it was clear as day: frequenting the throne room, the council chambers, and his private offices, being in one of the three at any given time was a clear invitation to and expectation of company.

Other locations, however, were a gray no man’s land, acting like extensions of Regis’ own mind, half barring wanderers from entering, half wishing some straggler would push past the entrance and make the room expand if only by an inch or two. Regis marked these territories soon after his son was born, and then again when his only child had been dragged off to meet the Goddess of Death herself. There was very little chance of the random person finding the King of Lucis in one of the hundreds of rooms spread throughout the citadel, but Clarus knew why he picked those places to inhabit. At least where this was concerned, Regis’ intentions could never be hard to decode.

A familiar door with brass handles comes into view as he goes down a narrow corridor hidden by a tapestry on the fifth floor. Clarus stops for a split second to knock, brushes the thought aside, and eases handsome cherry wood inward with no hint of resistance; just as easily, the door closes behind him. Regis is there, his back facing him. He stands to the north of the room, studying something large on the wall.

Clarus holds his peace for a time, choosing to stand at a respectable distance. Keeps his eyes to the side in an attempt to protect what little space Regis claims as his own. He locks his fingers together. And waits. When his concern grows too great, he makes a calculated plunge and cuts through the silence with the skill of a seasoned Shield.

“You’ve been staring at that painting for forty-five minutes.”

“And you’ve been standing there for just as long.” Regis turned, expression slightly surprised before settling into a comfortable smile.

“It’s actually been closer to an hour. You ignored me when I walked in.”

“Did I? Dear me, I’ve been lost in thought. How did the meeting go?”

“I kept them in line. As much as was humanly possibly.” Clarus would not return the grin, but his cheeks softened somewhat. “The Council was unhappy. I found myself not caring.”

“I daresay they must have been a handful. They do try their best to be consistent. My apologies.”

Clarus sighed. “I’m very certain you owe me some scotch.”

“I’m sure I do. They try not to show it, but I know it sets them on edge. Apparently it fuels the fire that I’m about to go meet Aulea. It never gets old.”

Clarus said nothing. Then: “I don’t see how that can sound like a joke.”

Regis laughed, a sad, low sound. “In time, in time. I serve the people as much as the gods, after all. But I digress, how did you know where to find me?”

“I made a good guess is all. That is, Sire.” 

“Oh?”

“You always come here when Atlas struggles with the boulder.”

“I see. You must have noticed me coming too often these last few weeks then.”

“Just about.”

“And today?”

“I was already expecting it.”

“Ah.”

“I knew it wasn’t your leg.”

Regis relaxed his grip on his cane just a fraction. “I don’t think that was the content of the text I sent you earlier.”

“I didn’t read your text, much less open it. I knew what it meant the moment my phone rang. Also, you shouldn’t try to scare people at four in the morning. I was about to alert Cor until I remembered what day it was.”

“And what fun that would have been.” Regis teased.

“Please don’t shorten my lifespan unnecessarily. It’s terribly unkind.”

“I do love that you’re such a drama queen. It gives spice to my otherwise mundane existence.”

“Gladly. I exist to please,” came the dry response.

Regis soft smile resurfaced. “You do spoil me.”

A few steps away from him, Clarus surveyed Regis. “Naturally. You will always be the Princess of Lucis to me.”

“Ever the wit, my sweet Clara. You seem to know all the days of the year. Even your grammar is impeccable.”

In spite of himself, Clarus smirked. His eyes bored into Regis. The years had not soured his friend’s sense of humor. Perhaps dulled it a bit, but that was understandable given his lot. However, as he took in the image of the king, and the pieces all connected in his mind’s eye, his smile faltered.

The man that stood to his right was so very different from the man he had grown up with.

Regis’ hair, once jet-black and worn all the way down to his shoulders, living testament to his youth and common gossip point among the palace maids of their time, was now gray and thin, and in some places that only he knew to look, threaded with discrete wisps of silver.

This thought set off a checklist in Clarus’ mind:

Once lean and sturdy of posture, Regis appeared partially stooped.

From what he could see of his profile, the king looked worn. Despite going to bed early each night, Regis always looked tired and used up.

There was a tension that never seemed to leave Regis like an unholy mantle.

This time, Clarus was not happy that he knew how and why. He detested that he could not put a halt to any of it.

The transformation, this unwelcome corruption, had taken place over tens of seasons, gradual in some places, fast and unforgiving in others. When Clarus had the chance to steal a look of his liege, typically when those dark eyes were cast downward to scan through royal edict after edict before signing his name at the bottom, he had been sobered by what he took in: the lines etched on Regis’ forehead and around his eyes always seemed to deepen each time, giving him a severe, joyless, and devastated look that worsened over time. And still there were times when Clarus uncovered even more: Regis thinking he was all alone but being badly mistaken. Clarus would catch him doubling over, frame quaking, his face in his hands.

“Regis.”

Already he knew: the king would not surrender his peace and risk it all falling apart.

Regis remained silent.

It had been decades since the CXIIIth had been fitted for his raiment and crowned the King of Lucis, appearing magnificent in black accented with gold. The years had helped him fill in the silhouette that could only be attributed to the leader of a nation. Today, however, Clarus registered, his liege was very much a man more than a monarch, and perhaps, had felt so for quite some time. When he saw the slight shake in Regis’ shoulders out of the corner of his eyes, Clarus very much wanted to turn away, but knowing his sworn oath, _no, his love for his brother_ , he would not.

An eternity later, a familiar scratch etched itself into the air: “Yes, Clara m’dear?”

“Do you remember when we went hunting for couerls when we were nineteen?”

“I do. I was grounded for a month afterwards.”

“King Mors was lenient. I got twenty stripes for that. Nineteen, plus one for my trouble, Father said. I couldn’t walk straight for weeks.”

“I thought some girl in the red light district had had her way with you. I heard you went back on the weekend. I tried to ply Cor with books but he wouldn’t betray your trust.”

“Sensible of him. I’d burn his library otherwise.”

“I understand why Cor prefers being assigned out of town now. A behemoth would be safer sport.”

As the only son of the Amicitia family, Clarus remembered the countless times when they, as young, naive and impulsive men, had engaged in hunts and drinking sprees and all other sorts of tomfoolery. He had been whipped by his father one too many times for encouraging the prince to dodge his tutors and skip arms training afterwards though, so the guilt was easy to do away with. Regis had been a brash, headstrong piece of work, wanting to break the rules and willing to challenge his father every now and then to do so, and with Clarus by his side, the prince seemed perpetually emboldened to forsake and go beyond what was proper and tasteful. Gladio would have had a fit had he known of his past antics; Clarus was and always had been too demanding of his son.

How distant that all seemed now, an echo, intangible and transparent, left to memory. 

A foot shifted and mental scraped the marble tile.

“I found myself preoccupied,” Regis whispered. “I needed a reminder that I cannot defy fate.”

Regis’ eyes searched the painting. “No matter how much I fight against it.”

Clarus followed suit, waiting for what was to come. The painting, twice the height of a full grown man, featured an older man holding a boy’s shoulder as they stood before Etro, the goddess lost in Sleep.

After a beat, Regis inhaled.

Clarus read that intake of breath with certainty: _He did not want to let go of his Breath._

“I’m sorry.” Clarus’ voice was slow and controlled.

Regis gave a small nod towards his left, acknowledging the kindness.

“She very nearly took away the thing you held to be most dear. That happened today, thirteen years ago.”

Regis raised his right hand and touched the canvass. The Ring of the Lucii glinted on his finger.

“Father showed me this picture when I was about his age. I never understood what it meant. Not until he passed the Ring on to me. Not until she had called him back to her. Then I had to be not one, but two fathers.”

The voice in the air broke and became feeble. “He will never know that. To play more than one role. I have always prayed that he would be spared from pain of this bleak world, the blood of my heart. But no. The innocent always pay for the sins of those that come before him.”

Clarus folded his hands behind his back. Regis pressed onward.

“She would have taken him from me as well had it not been ordained that he would be the Chosen King. She stepped back to honor Their wish. Yet even if she desisted from summoning him to her kingdom that starless night, her shadow still passed over him. He will always bear the scars of that death. Before he departs, he will have to die one too many times. It is too steep a price.” 

Clarus watched as Regis’ fingers gently caressed the hair on the head of the boy in the painting. The boy had dark hair, just like the man behind him.

Regis’ lips tightened. “I would give my life ten times over to free him from their wrath. The light of my night sky, I do not understand why he must pay for all of us. But,” and his voice splintered further, “it is not the place of mere humans to question the motives or wisdom of the gods. Not that I have not tried. I still cannot stop. Beg me, I can’t surrender him to anyone although I must.”

Clarus stood parallel to Regis.

“I have the might of our line behind me. The gods have granted me their favor. But such is their blessing that it curses the only thing I hold dear. A king, and yet I cannot protect my son. Much worse than this, I am sending him off to his demise. Lucis is destined to become a field of ashes. The world will know of the dawn by the waning of his star. What sort of father does that, Clarus? Am I still to call him my child and me, his father when I have killed him myself?”

“I know you know all this, Clarus...but still...sometimes the ocean has no place to go.”

Clarus places a hand on his shoulder. Regis removes his hand from the painting and places it atop his friend’s.

“For now, stay with me, my friend. If only you.” Regis resolutely looked forward. His tears flowed freely down his hollowed cheeks. A sob broke in his throat and he wept.

In answer, Clarus raised his eyes, feeling them burn into Etro’s face before they too became wet.


End file.
